Although our acquaintance is casual, Graffix Gallery owner Richard Halegua understands me in a way that neither my mom nor my girlfriend probably ever will: I get an overwhelming adrenal rush from well-crafted movie posters and pulp covers, and my growing compulsion to collect, display and mimic these things has the capacity to destroy everything I've ever worked for and everyone who's ever loved me.
It all started when I was 11 years old: I couldn't walk past the illuminated Beetlejuice poster displayed outside the dollar theater near my house without freezing up right there in front of it. The image is dark and joyful and weird and inviting, the fonts are distressed and bouncy and playful—but that doesn't begin to explain why that poster thrilled me like it did. When I had no money, I'd go to the theater just to look at that poster. And when I had money, I couldn't look at that poster and then bring myself to pay to see any other movie (which is why I saw it five times during its theatrical release). Today I have an original, near-mint Beetlejuice poster hanging in my living room—serving not only as decoration or inspiration, but also as a beautifully framed symbol of my addiction.
The first time Rich enabled me was when I stopped by his store looking for a Pulp Fiction poster—I'd hoped to find the recalled advance one-sheet where Uma's character is smoking from a pack of Lucky Strike cigarettes (their logo was subsequently removed from the final version for legal purposes) and reading from a paperback called Harlot in the Heart (digitally replaced in the final version with a book called Pulp Fiction, also for legal purposes). This extremely rare poster sells for about $1,500 online and is one of the most notoriously faked in cinematic history. I can't possibly afford an original; I just want to see one in person one day. Unfortunately Rich didn't have one, but he did have the official theatrical poster, which he sold to me at a generously discounted price.
For the next week, all I could think about was going back to Rich's store. I returned to buy Famous Fantastic Mysteries and Thrilling Detective pulps from the 1930s and '40s, just so I could slice off their tattered covers and frame them. Now, above my laundry hamper an evil skeleton forces a woman to sign her will against her will, and in my guest bathroom a man who has just become a monster gapes in terror at his moonlit reflection. My girlfriend worries that this weird stuff is going to take over the whole apartment, and rightfully so: I am not that strong and could easily become powerless over this thing.
The Graffix Gallery sells vintage movie posters, comic books, original comic artwork and similar collectibles, and feels like it appeared here in the desert just for me. In fact, I've been to the store four or five times, and at no time has there ever been any other customer there besides me. Rich once said to me, "In a business like this, you have to be prepared to go a month without a single person walking through your door." Last month he made $25,000 off the sale of some original pieces of comic art, but he hasn't had a month like that in years and doesn't expect to have another one anytime soon. He jokes that he's got $3 million worth of merchandise for sale, and $300 in the bank.
But Rich isn't just a dealer; he's got an addiction just like me. He also happens to be a realist: "At some point you ask yourself, 'Would I rather get a new pair of shoes, or buy art? Would I rather take a girl out to a nice dinner and get f----d, or buy art? Would I rather get married, have kids and start a family, or buy art?'
"My personal collection was about three times the size it is now. Once you can bring yourself to sell the first thing from your own collection, you can bring yourself to sell anything from it."
We were in the back room when Rich told me this, just as he unlocked a safe and withdrew an amazing piece of original Krazy Kat comic art from his personal collection.
I love Krazy Kat. And Rich can see it in my face. But this thing costs $9,000. Even my addiction has its limits.
As much as I would love to keep the Graffix Gallery in business all by myself, I can't because Rich doesn't accept credit cards. So in a way it's like he's helping me help myself.